


Für Elise

by TheTeaIsAddictive



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Family, Minor Character Death, Sister-Sister Relationship, can u believe i wrote 10k words bout plumette, follows the movie pretty closely, i guess?, period-typical racism? in my fanfiction? no thank you., period-typical slutshaming, should probably be a tag but isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 19:31:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTeaIsAddictive/pseuds/TheTeaIsAddictive
Summary: Maurice told Belle very little about her mother. She always assumed that it was because he was grief-stricken every time he thought about her. Had she asked, Maurice would have agreed. Neither of them knew it was because they were both affected by a curse laid on a nearby castle, and all who dwelled within.





	Für Elise

The sun streamed in gently through the open windows of Elise’s room. It was her favourite kind of day -- the light was clear and yellow, with barely a cloud in the sky even though there was a brisk autumn wind. Elise was sitting at her little desk, which her father had made for her before she was even born, happily drawing the landscape of Paris’s skyline. She picked up a yellow pencil, and set to work making a sun the exact colour and shape of the egg yolks she enjoyed eating at breakfast time. 

Maman loved yellow as well; she had painted the parlour in a pale shade like the first licks of fire, and most of Elise’s dresses were in various shades of the colour. Her favourite was the one which looked like saffron powder, with blue and pink and green butterflies embroidered on the stomach. That one always made her brown skin look even better than usual, although Maman was fond of saying that Elise’s skin looked lovely no matter what colour she was wearing. Elise tucked a stray curl behind her ear impatiently as she continued colouring in the sun, her tongue sticking out in concentration. 

Downstairs, she could hear Maman talking loudly with somebody -- probably the artist who illustrated the pamphlets she wrote. He was a nice man, Maman had said the first time Elise asked about him, who was kind and respectful and always had been. Elise and Maman had looked ‘respectful’ up in the dictionary later that night, and she wondered why Maman had needed to point it out. Maman told Elise to _always_ be respectful to everybody -- and if a five-year-old girl had to respect everybody, Elise didn’t know why an old man like the artist was getting special treatment from Maman for doing the same thing.

Leaning back, Elise looked at her drawing. The buildings formed the horizon, a large mass of grey stone -- but the sky was the real focus. Cornflower blue with an egg-yolk sun, just the way Elise liked it. She pushed back the chair and walked carefully down the stairs, holding onto the banister for balance. She stopped outside the parlour door, where she could hear Maman and the artist -- they were shouting now, but the house was so noisy from day to day that Elise wasn’t worried about it. She knocked smartly on the door.

“Come in,” Maman said, and Elise pushed open the door. She was standing by the fire, little wisps of hair coming away from her face. The man was sitting at the table by the window, with a red face and a piece of paper crumpled in his hand.

“Maman,” Elise said, “I drew you the sky.” She held the drawing out, and Maman’s face broke out into a wide smile. 

“Oh, Elise, it’s beautiful,” she said. “Would you like to show M. Beaumont? He’s the man who draws those pictures on the pamphlets.”

Elise walked over to the man, who had sat up as soon as she walked in the room, and handed him the picture. He looked at it gravely for a moment, before looking her dead in the eyes. 

“This is very nice indeed,” he said. “Is it Paris? I think I see the Champs-Élysées down there.”

“It’s the view from the window,” Elise said. “Look -- there’s the bridge, and there’s the river, and there’s Notre Dame.” She pointed the tiny landmarks out with a chubby finger, and M. Beaumont nodded seriously. 

“Very good,” he said. “Very good indeed.” He passed the drawing back, and Elise took it, looking over it with new eyes now that it had a seal of approval.

“Have you met Elisabeth before?” she heard Maman ask. 

“Not since she was an infant, at the funeral,” he replied. “The people who -- the gossips, they say she looks like Daniel because she has his skin, but I don’t think that’s right.”

“Oh?” Maman asked. 

“That little chin, those eyes? She resembles you more than her father, Georgette.” 

There was a silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Elise began humming a tune under her breath, as she wondered what it would be like to be a bird, always flying through the sky. 

“She’s all I have, Maurice,” Maman said quietly. “My reputation died the moment the public found out Daniel and I weren’t married, and after _he_ died . . .”

“I’m sorry,” M. Beaumont said. “I didn’t mean to -- stir up old memories.”

“It’s a blessing to have her,” Maman said. “I look at her, and I see what he gave me every day. And she is why I keep writing -- why I keep fighting. I don’t care what they say about me, but Elise? She deserves better than being cast off as a bastard simply because we didn’t wish to marry.” In the back of her head, Elise noticed that Maman’s voice was getting louder, the way it always did when she got excited. “The laws are unfair, Maurice, and society’s laws are even more so.”

“I know that, Georgette,” he said. “It’s why I’m fighting with you. But it’s hard enough for you to bring her up, when you can at least say that you and Daniel were partners. I --” He broke off then, looking at Elise, before continuing in a much quieter voice, “-- I know what we have is new, and untested, but I would be greatly unhappy if I caused you more grief because of something I did.”

“We did it together, my dear,” Georgette said, with a hint of a smile. “But that’s not the point, Maurice! It’s not that I don’t hold affection towards you, because I _do_ \-- it would completely go against my principles!”

“And mine!” 

“So why are you asking?”

“Because the world we live in is an imperfect one, and if a piece of paper with both our names on it can save you and the child some pain, then I would rather do that than see you suffer again!”

Maman sighed, running her hand over Elise’s head. “It feels like a defeat,” she said quietly. “Like I’m giving up everything I’ve been campaigning for.”

“Do you accept, then?” M. Beaumont asked. 

“Yes,” Maman said. “For Elise, and the child.”

Elise raised her head at the sound of her name. “Maman?” she asked. 

“Elise,” she said. “M. Beaumont has asked me to marry him. He’ll be like a Papa to you. Is that alright?”

Elise looked at M. Beaumont again. He wasn’t very tall, and his buttons weren’t done quite right. But his face looked like one that smiled a lot, and his arms looked big enough for a hug, and Maman liked him enough to want to marry him. 

“Okay,” Elise said. “Should I call you Papa? My real one died.”

“I know, Elise,” he said. “I knew your father before you were born -- we came from the same village. But you don’t have to call me Papa if you don’t want.”

Elise walked over to him, close enough to smell the paint on his fingers and his subtle cologne. She looked him straight on, and something in his eyes seemed . . . right.

“I want to,” she said decisively, and leaned over to give him a hug. 

“Alright then, Elise,” he said. “This time next week, we’ll officially be family.”

\---

Neither Elise, nor Papa, nor Issy had stopped crying some way or another since they had left the windmill which had been home for the last three years. Papa kept weeping silently, tears tracing down his cheeks and losing themselves in his moustache. He kept his arms tight around Elise and Issy, and Elise could feel the tears hit the top of her head every so often. 

Issy had been confused and sleepy when Papa had plucked her out of her cot, her mumbles swiftly changing into shrieks when she saw Maman lying in bed and the doctor beside her. She had screamed and screamed while they left the windmill, kicking the air with all her might, crying for Maman until Elise shut her up with a sharp pinch by her elbow. She was asleep now, although her little face was twisted into a frown.

Elise herself hadn’t quite grasped the reality of the situation until Papa and the doctor had left the windmill. Papa had dropped some coins into the doctor’s hand -- Elise had balanced Issy on one hip, as her sister began fighting to run back to Maman -- and Elise had realised quite suddenly that her mother would be dead in a few hours. She had held back the tears until the three of them had settled in the coach that would take them north, to Papa’s sister. Now her lip quivered, and she buried her head in Papa’s chest as she sobbed until his shirt was completely soaked. 

“I’m sorry, Elise,” Papa said a few hours later, as the grey light of pre-dawn crept through the coach’s windows. “I’m so sorry. There was nothing we could do. If you and Issy had stayed, you would have caught it as well.”

“I know, Papa,” she said quietly. He kissed her forehead tenderly. 

Papa’s sister and her husband had been sympathetic when they first arrived. Papa had wandered around the village like he was lost, while Elise had kept busy with Issy. Her aunt had some children’s books which Issy slowly worked her way through over the next few weeks, while the summer died around them as slowly as Maman had. She read some of the fairy tales aloud to Issy, like Maman used to do, pointing her fingers under each word so that her sister could read along, even though she couldn’t read the tiny writing. The leaves began to fall, September gave way gracefully to October, and Elise realised that it was almost Issy’s second birthday. Her aunt and uncle were getting uncomfortable with Papa and his grief -- Elise might only be eight and a half, but even she knew that Papa wasn’t getting any better. 

One night, she pushed open the door to his room, leaving Issy in her cot, and clambered into bed with him. Neither of them said anything, but she hugged him as tightly as she could as tears leaked out behind her closed eyes. Papa started humming her song -- the song Maman had played on the piano, while they still had one, the one named after a lady with her same name -- and Elise joined in after a moment. 

“Papa,” she whispered. “It’s Issy’s birthday next week.”

Papa sighed through his nose -- a truly impressive feat, and one that used to drive Maman crazy, “Shall we have a party?” he asked. “Or were you having trouble thinking of a present?”

It was what he always asked when one of her friends was having a birthday, and Elise sank into the normality with thanks. They chatted until both of them fell into sleep, one after the other. The next day, something had changed in Papa’s eyes -- he had a plan, for the first time in weeks. Elise saw him start tinkering around with his music boxes and paints again, and both she and her aunt let out a small sigh of relief.

\---

The next six years were the most exciting times of Elise’s life. She, Issy, and Papa lived life as travelling salespeople, going from village to village and fair to fair, selling Papa’s music boxes and sketches. If Papa was commissioned, sometimes they stayed in a village for up to a year at a time. Issy read anything she could get her hands on, while Elise sang and danced around the housework, and after a day’s work in wherever his workshop was Papa would join them in cooking and cleaning whatever else needed done. 

Elise taught Issy as many songs as she could remember her mother singing, and they would harmonise as they dusted and scrubbed and polished. Of an evening, Elise would knit and sew while Issy read aloud from whatever play she was reading, with Papa often taking over when Issy grew too tired. Issy liked helping Papa with the gears and mechanics of his music boxes -- Elise, for her part, preferred handicrafts and running around outside to her sister’s more sedentary habits. They were happy. 

When Elise was fourteen, and Issy eight, Papa announced that he finally had enough money to buy a permanent house he had been eyeing up for quite some time. They settled in Villeneuve -- close enough to larger towns and fairs for Papa to get regular business, but small and quiet enough to ease Papa’s fears about comments on Maman’s political activities. It was a pleasant enough town, and would have been lovely, had it not been for the inevitable downsides of small town life. 

They were a subject of gossip immediately, but the family had expected this. They had _not_ expected the schoolmaster to be so pig-headed about letting Elise and Issy study at his school. Papa grumbled, and Issy’s lip quivered, but Elise merely stuck her chin out and read books with Issy on their own. Issy followed Elise’s example, and Papa would ruffle their hair with pride. The minister proved an unexpected ally, as he talked with Papa every Sunday and always asked after Issy and Elise politely. 

They had good years and bad years, as always. One particularly bad time, when Papa had gotten no work for six months, the newest fair wasn’t until spring, and Issy had a particularly bad cough, Elise decided to ask Père Robert if he knew any jobs he thought she would be suited for now that she was sixteen. He asked around, checking in with the potter’s wife and the fishmonger’s brother, and managed to get Elise a position as a maidservant in the chateau a few miles out of town. Issy had been upset of course, but behind his bluster Papa was proud of Elise. She was being independent, just the way Maman had dreamed she would be. 

“We have three Elisabeths and two Elises already,” the housekeeper said breezily on her second day there. “Do you mind a nickname?”

“Not at all, Madame,” Elise said politely. 

“Mrs. Potts, please,” she said. “We have a Madame here already -- the opera singer married to the court composer. You see what I mean?” she laughed. “Lumière,” she called. “You’re better at nicknames than I am -- what’s another derivative of Elisabeth that isn’t Elise?”

A tall man with sparkling eyes swaggered over. He looked Elise up and down quickly, and for some reason she couldn’t quite comprehend, Elise felt a shiver of anticipation sweep down her spine. “Lili?” he suggested. 

Elise frowned. “Oh, no,” she said, and she felt a sense of satisfaction seeing him so clearly intrigued at her outspokenness in opposing him. “I think Babette would be much better.” 

\---

The chateau was always filled with ladies, Babette soon realised. Ladies who needed their hair done, their makeup perfected, their dresses laced up another half-inch tighter. The lords, thankfully, she didn’t have to deal with very often. Sometimes, if the young prince of the castle felt like being more extravagant than usual, he would throw a masked ball -- and then _everybody_ in the castle had to help the guests. 

She gained a reputation for being good with makeup -- which she was -- and she began to rise through the ranks of maid. Babette knew in her heart that she was not cut out for a managerial role, but she enjoyed working with the ladies just fine, so it didn’t bother her. The downside was that as her reputation grew, so did the demand from other guests. She had never been alone with a strange man before, and even though Babette didn’t think anything would ever happen, the anxiety gnawed away at her. 

Lumière, the maitre d’ and the closest thing the Master had to a friend, soon became her confidant as well. The first day she had to do the makeup of a lord, he walked up the stairs with her and stayed in the room the whole time, chatting with the man as Babette steadied her nerves and applied the powders. 

“Thank you,” she said afterwards. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“My prince, although he has some virtues, has an unfortunate habit of surrounding himself with the more disreputable men at Court,” Lumière admitted. “I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you because somebody took advantage of your talent, _petite Plumette_.”

“You are very kind, monsieur,” she said, blushing at the nickname as she did every time. He had begun calling her Plumette after he had remarked, one day, that he never saw her without either a feather duster or a feathered brush in one hand.

“Please, call me Lumière,” he said, flashing a brilliant smile. “You have been with us for over two years; such formalities are a little behind us.”

Babette frowned. “Monsieur -- the other maids do not call you by so familiar a name. And you do not talk to them the way you do to me, calling me by a nickname.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Lumière asked. His voice had dropped its usual playfulness, and he looked at her with a gravity she wasn’t used to seeing in him. “I thought that you didn’t mind, because you went along with it and seemed comfortable with me -- but if I have read the situation wrong --”

“It’s not that I mind,” Babette said. “It’s that I mind too much.” She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, but she had always been a straight talker and was not about to stop now. “Monsieur, I feel as if I take a liberty every time I see you. You are kind to me in ways you aren’t to the other girls, and we laugh and have a good time together, and it feels -- it feels like more than it is.”

Lumière’s jaw dropped open slightly. Babette flushed again, and turned away. “Forget what I said, monsieur. I have -- I have made a mistake.”

“No, no, Babette!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a small alcove, hidden from most viewpoints by virtue of its being in shadow. “You have not made any mistake. Everything I have said to you, how I act towards you -- it is exactly as much as it is.” He lifted a hand to her cheek tentatively, as if he was steeling himself for rejection. 

Babette rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him, ignoring the little sound of surprise that came from his mouth as he adjusted. He kissed her back, one hand on her cheek, one gripping her hand like a lifeline, and Babette felt as if she could grow wings and fly around the castle, she was so happy.

The next time their breaks coincided, they travelled to Villeneuve together to tell Papa they were courting. Lumière had seemed surprised that he would not ask permission, but after half an hour of talking he and Papa were chatting together like a house on fire; discussing everything from the music boxes, to the sketches of Belle and Babette that adorned his workshop, to the large painting of Georgette in the corner of the room which Maurice had been working on for the last six years, little by little. Maman’s face was painted in, while Belle and Babette were merely pencil sketches; one in her arms, one beside her.

While Lumière talked with Papa, Babette went down to the washing well to find Issy -- it was her favourite place in the village to read, as it was next door to the boys school and was guaranteed to elicit a reaction from the headmaster. They hugged, and laughed, and Babette felt a little pit in her stomach form as she realised how tall Issy was growing, and how her hair was already darkening from the golden curls of her babyhood to a rich brown. 

“I feel like I hardly see you, Issy,” she said. 

“It’s alright, Elise,” Issy replied. “We see you oftener than Clothilde sees her brother. Why do you get better holidays than him, anyway?”

Babette giggled, and whispered in Issy’s ear, “I don’t -- he just chooses to spend them at the castle. Who can blame him -- look!”

Clothilde had just come out of her shop, and on spotting the sisters sharing a book had glowered and turned back in. Issy laughed as well, wrapping an arm around Babette. “Elise, will you and Lumière get married?”

“I hope so,” she said. “We’ve not been courting very long, but who knows. We’ll be busy at the castle for the next few months, either way. The prince has planned a grand masked ball -- well, grander than usual, requiring a lot more preparation than normal -- with makeup taking the place of the masks and all eligible debutantes to attend.”

“Like Cinderella?” Issy asked, her imagination taking flight.

“Issy, if you’re planning to turn up at the ball and leave a shoe behind for him to pick up afterwards, I think you’ll be a little disappointed. He’s _supposed_ to pick a wife, but he won’t -- he’s done the same thing five times since I joined the castle. And besides, he’s far too old for you -- he’s just turned twenty-one, and you’re only twelve.”

Issy shrugged -- evidently, Babette thought, she had not reached the age where she thought incessantly about boys yet, and instead was only interested in the prince as a character from her books come to life. She couldn’t help feeling that she was glad of it -- she saw her sister little enough as it was, that Babette couldn’t help fearing that one day Issy would grow up before her eyes, tie her hair back in one braid, and ask to be called ‘Isabelle’ rather than childish ‘Issy’. 

\---

Ten years of waiting. Ten years of feathers spurting out where her legs used to be, of her fingers and thumbs disappearing into carved ivory wings, of looking at a little white bird in the glass and not her own brown face. Ten years of looking at Lumière, the most human-looking of them all, and wondering why they had been separated in so cruel a manner. They did what they could, dancing and singing the time away, trying to boost Cogsworth’s spirits and stay out of the Beast’s way, and supporting each other when the burden became too much for one to bear alone. _If only a bird had lips,_ she would think. _If only metal and ivory had nerves._

And then, almost ten years to the day she had told Papa and Issy that she and Lumière were courting, an old man had stumbled upon the castle; his beloved daughter following the very next morning.

\---

Plumette found out that she liked Belle after she stood her ground against the Master’s dinner invitation. The girl’s tenacity and righteous anger was worthy of admiration, in her opinion, no matter what Cogsworth said. She had been in her room to dust it a little more after Lumière’s dinner celebration, while Belle was eating, and couldn’t restrain a smirk at the handmade rope that dangled out of the window. 

“She is a brave one, isn’t she?” Plumette said to Mrs. Potts as the two of them oversaw the kitchen clean-up. 

“Indeed,” she agreed. “Standing up to the Master like that -- it’s what he needs, that’s what. We were all too afraid to tell him ‘no’, but she isn’t.” She sighed. “I almost told her about the curse.”

“You did?” Plumette asked. “Why did you stop?”

“She seems so determined to leave,” Mrs. Potts said, twisting her spout in something that passed for a shrug. “There’s no sense in telling her about it when she might not even stay -- and if she _does_ stay, it would create an obligation for her to love him, wouldn’t it?”

“Mrs. Potts, the current staff is made up of inanimate objects,” Plumette said with a hint of deadpan. “I think Belle will have noticed that some kind of enchantment is going on.” Mrs. Potts laughed once, a harsh sound, and she continued. “You are right in not telling her how to break the curse, but if she stays I don’t see the harm in being honest with her.” Plumette ruffled her wings -- her own attempt at nonchalance. “That is just my opinion.”

Several things suddenly happened in quick succession before Mrs. Potts could respond. 

A roar came from the direction of the West Wing; Plumette, being the most mobile of the upper household staff, flew towards the hall to investigate while Mrs. Potts followed on the tea trolley; Lumière began to shout and Cogsworth to blow his whistle; and Belle ran straight past Plumette in a rush of blue while everybody shouted for her to stay behind, following Frou-Frou out the little door and grabbing her cloak neatly back from Chapeau as she left. 

“What happened?” Plumette asked. Lumière and Cogsworth had just begun to explain that Belle had been running away from the West Wing, when the Master himself ran down the stairs and towards the door on all fours. 

“Master, what is happening?” Cogsworth asked. 

“Wolves -- I saw it in the mirror. Be sure to have the bandages and medical supplies ready when I come back; I might need them.” With no more explanation than that, he shot through the same door as Belle and Frou-Frou, leaving everybody in an even deeper state of confusion than before. Mrs. Potts quickly sent some servants off to gather the supplies as the Master had asked, and they settled down to wait. It ended up being almost an hour before he returned. 

Of all the things Plumette had expected to see when the Master came back, it certainly wasn’t Belle struggling under his weight and kicking the door open, his arm slung around her shoulders as the two of them staggered into the castle. They were both covered in snow, although Belle’s skirt and boots were wet and muddy where it must have soaked in or melted. Chapeau instantly hurried over to them and tried to take his other arm, but the Beast let out a roar of pain as soon as he lifted it up. His eyes were flat and unfocused, and Plumette had the feeling that he had either recently been unconscious or was on the brink of it.

“Wolves bit him in the shoulder,” Belle gasped. “Where should we go?”

“The West Wing, mademoiselle,” Plumette said. “If it is a bad wound, he should be comfortable, and that way we won’t have to move him twice.”

Belle nodded grimly, half-carrying the Beast over to the stairs and keeping him beside the banister -- presumably so that if she fell, he had something to hold onto, Plumette realised. Chapeau left through the main doors, a small chain of brushes and bandages following him to check on Phillippe. Plumette fluttered around Belle and the Beast, unable to help but unwilling to leave them alone, until they reached the West Wing. The Beast was shuffling forwards as if he was sleepwalking, letting almost his entire weight rest on Belle. To her credit, she merely grunted and kept dragging him along, until they finally reached his bed, where she dropped him face-down on the sheets. Belle stood, panting, and she rolled her shoulder backwards and forwards for a minute or so. 

“Belle, poppet?” Mrs. Potts asked hesitantly. She rolled over on the tea trolley, laden with bandages, hot water, and scissors. “I know you must be exhausted, but could you help us wash out the wound and bind it up, please? You’ll be quicker than any of us at it.” 

Belle sighed once, tucked her loosened hair behind her ears, and began to cut the Beast’s shirt away from his back. Once the wound was clear, she dipped a cloth in hot water and began to wash it out. The Beast, who seemed to have fainted, twitched as she worked but was otherwise still. 

“Please tell me you didn’t carry him all the way back?” Plumette asked. 

“I got him onto Phillippe, and we walked back from the frozen river. It was only once we got to the front entrance that I had to carry him in.” She kept cleaning the wound and rinsing the cloth, slowly turning the water red. “He came after me. He saved my life.”

“You came back and saved his,” Mrs. Potts said. 

Belle was silent. When she was done, she wound the bandages around his shoulder as best as she could. Mrs. Potts dutifully fussed over her, and ushered her off to her own bedroom to sleep; Cogsworth, who had eventually made it all the way up the stairs, was assigned to watch over the Beast for any sign of infection, to save him having to immediately go all the way back down again. 

Over the next two weeks the Beast convalesced and Belle adjusted to castle life. Plumette saw her fairly often, and the more she ran into her, the more she felt that they had met before. She enjoyed reading plays and novels, she was compassionate, she stood up for herself and for whatever she thought was right -- echoes of a personality which resonated in Plumette’s memory. 

“I just feel like I am missing something,” she said to Lumière that night. “She comes from Villeneuve, but I don’t remember any girls my age who looked like her. If I had seen her father, maybe I would be able to place her.” Plumette had not been among the few servants who had attended Belle’s father when he arrived; she had been spending time with Madame instead, as they both enjoyed each other’s company very well. She had been rather annoyed that she had missed the excitement at first, but Belle’s arrival had provided more excitement than had been seen in a decade. 

“You could always ask her,” Lumière suggested. 

“The curse erased all memory of us, remember?” Plumette said. “If she knew me, she wouldn’t remember, and if she _didn’t_ know me, I probably wouldn’t know her.” She ruffled her feathers, and settled down with her head on his metal shoulder. “It doesn’t matter that much,” she said. “It’s just -- she seems so familiar.”

Plumette didn’t have much time to wonder about Belle’s identity, however; now that there was another living person in the castle, there was more work for her to do. She observed Belle and the Beast growing closer, day by day, and she began to feel hopeful that the spell would actually be broken in time. She saw them walking through the grounds as she dusted the windows, reading poetry; organising the library, as she eavesdropped with Lumière and Cogsworth at the door; playfully fighting with snowballs, as she and Lumière waltzed and hoped. 

It came as a surprise when Belle walked over to her and asked if there was anything that _she_ could do around the castle. 

“I’m really not doing much, and I’d love to help in some way,” she said. 

“Most of the rooms are in working order, mademoiselle,” Plumette said. “The only room we haven’t touched is the ballroom, and nobody has used that in years.” She didn’t have to say that the curse had been cast in that very room; Belle was intelligent enough that she understood the veiled reference instantly, and she nodded slowly. 

“If you wanted to, I could help clean it up,” she said. 

And so now Belle divided her time between the Beast, her books, and the ballroom. Plumette discovered that for all Belle’s literary achievements, she was also a good worker who knew how to clean properly -- a rarer quality than one might think. She chatted idly to Plumette about her life; she had travelled about with her father, although she didn’t remember it very well, before they settled in Villeneuve. She told her about the washing machine she had made, and the little girl she had tried to teach to read, and her father’s music boxes. 

And Plumette knew, even before she began to sing one of her old songs which Belle began to harmonise to, that she had found her little sister. 

\---

She told nobody. Not even Lumière. There was no point in telling Belle -- the Enchantress’ spell would probably remove the information as soon as Plumette told her. If it made a difference to the Master that the woman he might be falling in love with was a maid’s sister, then the curse would never be broken. None of the other servants would understand what it meant to Plumette to have found Issy again -- Cogsworth hated his sister, and Mrs. Potts’ husband was a constant sore point for her. Lumière had no family nearby, to _feel_ the cruelty of the curse. She wasn’t close to the other servants who might feel the same way, and it would just be awkward for all involved to confide in them now. 

Lumière could tell that something had changed, of course, but he could also tell that Plumette didn’t want to talk about it. They spent more time together as the rose’s petals began to fall more and more frequently. The strangest atmosphere hung around the castle over those next few weeks; simultaneously hopeful that the spell would be broken, and dejected that the changes the curse wrought were coming more and more quickly. Lumière began to lose the mobility in his feet and wrists -- the things which had made him feel most human -- while Plumette’s wings lost any resemblance they still had to fingers. He used to be able to dim his flames enough to kiss her cheek safely -- now they burned straight and true all hours of the day and night, and would certainly cause her to go up in smoke. What had begun as a teasing joke as a way to cope in the first days of the curse had morphed into another way they were kept apart. 

Even as Lumière and Plumette felt the loss of physical affection keenly, the whole castle couldn’t help but notice that Belle and the Beast were growing closer. One day they emerged from the library together; it would have been an everyday matter, except that Belle’s eyes were red-rimmed, and the Master’s hand was resting gently on her shoulder as they walked towards the gardens. When Plumette went to dust the upper shelves of the library (it took more effort to fly higher, and so she saved the trickiest angles for later in the day), she saw that the Book was out on the desk. 

“That explains that, then,” she murmured to herself. It was always the Book to the staff, who would also pronounce the capital letter. Few had used it, even after a decade. Mrs. Potts and Plumette had both peered into its pages to try and see their loved ones, but had soon discovered its cruel trick; the book could take you anywhere you wanted to go, but it would be completely devoid of people. Plumette had visited some of her old houses, including the windmill and the townhouse in Paris; the one time she had visited Villeneuve, it had taken her over an hour to realise that Papa and Issy would not show up at home. She knew that the Master had tried to use it many times during their first year cursed, but had eventually given up. 

She wondered where Belle had gone. 

\---

“Hello, Beast,” Belle smiled. 

Plumette twisted her head around while continuing to dust the very tops of the chandeliers. She and Belle -- along with several inanimate feather dusters -- were in the final stages of cleaning up the ballroom. It hadn’t looked this sparkling or new since the night the curse was cast. And yet, Plumette mused, there was something about the fact that _Belle_ had helped to clean it, which changed the character of the room. She kept quiet as the two of them talked; although her future and arguably her life depended on their relationship, they were still entitled to their privacy.

“I was wondering . . .” the Beast said suddenly, at a much louder volume. “You’ve worked so hard cleaning this room up, and it looks so lovely -- it would be a shame to have it go to waste.”

“Thank you,” Belle said. “Are you suggesting . . . ?”

“A ball?” he said. Plumette could see his tail swishing urgently behind him, and firmly turned back around, intent on eavesdropping as little as possible. “Nothing very formal, of course, but it might be nice to do something tonight, to celebrate.”

“That sounds lovely,” Belle said. “But I -- well, I don’t exactly have anything to wear.”

“You could ask Madame.”

Belle laughed out loud. “You didn’t see what she put me in the first night I was here. I ended up trying to use the fabric as a rope, and it almost reached the ground.”

The Beast laughed, and Plumette allowed herself a small snicker as well. Unlike the Master, she knew exactly what Belle was talking about, and her assertion about the sheer yardage of fabric in that ‘dress’ didn’t surprise her a bit. 

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” he chuckled. “Well. It was just a thought.” She heard the faint clipping sound of his claws on the polished floor as he began to leave. 

“Beast!” Belle said. He paused, and Plumette couldn’t help but turn back around. Belle was blushing prettily, and she twisted the duster in her hand round her fingers. “I didn’t mean to say ‘no’. I was just trying to forewarn you, in case I show up in this old blue dress and you’re all dressed up.”

With more suavity than Plumette would have credited him with, the Beast said, “Well, forewarned is forearmed,” half-bowing graciously before leaving the room. “Until tonight.”

The moment the doors shut, Belle spun around to face Plumette. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough to know that this is quite possibly the most exciting thing that has happened here in years!” Plumette laughed, gliding down and hovering above her head. “Now, you don’t have to tell _me_ that some of Madame’s dresses can be a little . . . off the mark -- but there are some lovely dresses which she could alter perfectly! Wash your hair, do some makeup -- which I was renowned for in this castle, I’ll have you know -- and you’ll be ready in no time!”

“Wash my hair?” Belle frowned. “I washed it this morning!”

“And you have been working all day since then -- we’ll want to get it shiny and beautiful.” 

“Plumette, you’re very kind, but I know what sorts of things people wear at Court -- I’ve seen the broadsheets. I won’t make a fool out of myself for something which is supposed to _not be formal_.” Belle folded her arms decisively, and Plumette knew that she would never have her primped and powdered like the other ladies of the castle. 

“Will you at least trust me about Madame’s alteration skills?” she asked. “There is a lovely dress, just about your size, which would suit you wonderfully with a little bit of work.”

“Alright,” she said. “I suppose we should go and tell her, then?”

“After you, Issy.”

The old nickname slipped out before Plumette could stop herself. She froze instinctively, wondering what would happen. But Belle continued walking as if she hadn’t even heard Plumette speak. 

It appeared that the curse was more effective than she had feared, even in her wildest nightmares. 

\---

Plumette had powdered the Master’s face and washed it off again, and had dutifully helped him get ready in other, more natural ways, for the dance with Belle. Lumière, Cogsworth, and Mrs. Potts had gone to watch them dance, but the fact that it was _Issy_ whom they were depending on had been too much for her to cope with. So Plumette had instead seen Chip off to bed -- the boy had been full of beans, and very put out at the fact that he was going to miss the fun -- and then flown up to see Madame, who was also too excited to sleep. 

“Hush! Hush!” she cried out after about half an hour of idle chatting. “Giovanni is playing for them. Open the doors please, Plumette; I would like to hear what I can.”

Plumette obliged, wedging the door open awkwardly with her handle. With every hour she grew stiffer and less pliable, and she could only hope that Belle and the Best would break the spell that night. The ballroom doors were wide open from where Mrs. Potts had trundled in, and for once Cadenza’s music was perfectly audible in the bedroom. The two women fell silent, enjoying the waltz as it played out. As it ended, Plumette noticed that Madame had fallen silent, but not asleep; she quietly left the room, allowing Madame to reminisce and hope alone. A series of muted clinks and taps coming from the ballroom told Plumette that the three servants who had observed the dancers were allowing them some privacy, and she glided down to meet Lumière at the foot of the stairs. 

“Well?” she asked. “How did it go?”

With an effort which only Plumette knew the extent of, Lumière lifted up his arms and swung her around into a classic dance hold, spinning the two of them around the floor. “Oh, Plumette, it was wonderful! You could almost see them falling in love with each other!”

“The atmosphere was rather romantic,” Cogsworth allowed. “Best to leave them to it, for now. It wouldn’t do to overhear them.”

Although Cogsworth was speaking for his own uneasiness with romance, Plumette couldn’t help but agree. “I suppose all we can do now is wait,” she said. 

“It seems so,” Mrs. Potts said. “Tell you what -- I’ll just check on Chip, and then we can have one last evening in the old sitting room, hmm?” 

It had become something of a routine for the four of them to sit and talk in front of the fire, in the room which was normally reserved for the head butler and housekeeper. Of course, neither Cogsworth not Mrs. Potts could use the room any more; Cuisinier, the other senior staff member, could not leave the room he was in, and Madame and Cadenza were similarly limited. Plumette wasn’t sure when, exactly, the other maids had started treating her with the deference which the others frequently inspired, but it certainly hadn’t been before those evenings. 

“Lumière and I shall stoke up the fire,” she said. The two of them hurried off, while Mrs. Potts trundled to the kitchens and Cogsworth, always the slowest, plodded after them. In a matter of minutes Plumette had pulled back the curtains, and Lumière had the fire blazing merrily. She flew down to his side, nestling her bird head on his shoulder as best they could.

“Plumette,” he said quietly. “Do you ever wish . . . that we had been quicker about marrying?”

She turned to look at him as quickly as possible -- a tricky manoeuvre, given that her handle no longer bent or twisted like a human neck could. “Why do you ask, my love?”

“Because, I . . .” For the first time since that breathless moment where they had begun courting, Lumière appeared lost for words. “I love you more than myself. And if I had known that we would spend ten years not even being able to _feel_ one another, I would have asked that we at least become husband and wife. Even if it was only written in a contract, and we had still been separated before we could seal that union with a kiss . . . it would make this easier to bear, in some way.” He shrugged, the light playing across his burnished metal. “To be separated from one’s wife is an understandable misery, but one’s companion? An observer would ask why we did not leave each other at any moment, if we were so miserable.”

“Lumière,” she said in a low voice. “You know I would never leave you. I would have to die before I left your side.” She extended her wing to caress his face -- a caress neither of them could feel, but which brought comfort, all the same. “It is a difficult sensation to put into words, I know . . . but I can’t bring myself to regret a single moment. Will this separation not make our marriage all the sweeter, knowing how long we had to wait?” 

He smiled at her, a bittersweet and strange gesture. “So you will still marry me, then? A candlestick nearly forty years old, who cannot feel your touch?”

“ _Candelabra_ ,” Plumette corrected lightly. “And you -- you will take the daughter of a political activist and a man thirty years dead, raised by an artist who does not even remember that he has another daughter?” 

“Of course,” Lumière said. They had shared their backgrounds with each other many years beforehand, and he knew all about her early life and childhood. “Unless you feel that ignoring your mother’s stance on marriage makes you a hypocrite?”

Plumette shook her head. “She wrote to try and change the laws, to make them fairer for women and protect them from cruel husbands. She did not live to see it, but she succeeded. So no, I don’t feel any sense of duty to _not_ marry you.”

“I am glad,” Lumière laughed quietly, and they settled in front of the fire again. “Do you know,” he said, “for all our talk of marriage, I think that this is the first time we have actually asked each other to enter into it.”

Plumette laughed, and after a moment Lumière joined in. Their peace was shattered the next moment when through the open door they saw Belle, still in her ballgown, running out to the stables, the mirror in her hand. 

The two of them hurried out to the hall, but she had already run through the front door, as it swung shut before their eyes. Lumière ran straight up the stairs to the Master, Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts disappearing into one of the more accessible servants passages that ran inside the walls of the castle. Plumette followed Belle outside, a feeling of dread filling her. 

“Belle? What’s happened?”

Belle turned around to face Plumette; her horse was half-saddled already. “My father,” she said bluntly. “He’s being held in the madhouse’s wagon. I have to go to him.” Her face was stoic and angry, but Plumette knew that Issy had never been one for crying when she was upset, unless it was irreparable. “He -- I don’t know what’s happening, I can’t hear them -- but I think it’s because of what he saw here. He must have tried to get help, and it backfired. Because of me.”

Plumette almost fell out the air. If Papa was harmed, or taken to the madhouse . . .

“Good luck,” she said. Belle nodded at her, and finished saddling her horse. Plumette flew up to the West Wing before Belle had even mounted him, rejoining Lumière and the other servants. The Beast told them what she had just learned, and the four of them left him to his own devices for the final few hours of the curse. 

“If there was a chaplain here, I would marry you this instant,” Lumière whispered to her as they settled back in the hall. 

Feather dusters do not have tear ducts. Otherwise, Plumette would have burst into sobs at that very instant. The curse was going to become permanent after two more petals fell. She was never going to see her family again. 

“Lumière, my love, there’s something I should have told you about Belle. I figured it out a long time ago, but I thought there would be time to tell you afterwards.” 

She told him quickly. Feather dusters cannot shed tears, but they can shake and sob while a candelabra tries to soothe them as best they can.

Eventually -- it could have been ten minutes later, or five hours -- Plumette and Lumière got up from the stairs, where they had been sitting since Plumette told him about Issy. 

“I should have recognised your father the moment he entered the castle,” Lumière muttered. “How could I not recognise him?”

“You met him once, ten years ago,” Plumette said. “And even if you had said anything about the past, he wouldn’t have heard you.”

“Well, what do we do now?” he asked. “Do you want to tell anybody else?”

“No,” she said. “There’s no point. If the Master doesn’t love her because she’s related to his maid, then he doesn’t deserve her. If she comes back, they’ll find out anyway. And if she doesn’t . . .”

Lumière jerkily reached out to soothe her; his flames flared up, and he thought the better of it. “You think she will come back, then?”

“I can only hope, as we all do,” Plumette said. 

\---

The battle was exhilarating. It was as if she had been granted a new lease on life, and for the minutes that the battle raged on, she had as much mobility as at the very beginning of the curse, before the petals fell and she became less and less human. She fought fiercely, by Lumière’s side and behind his back, attacking and defending, twisting and turning and weaving through the crowds of villagers. She avoided Mr. Potts and Clothilde -- not for their own sakes, as they were attacking as fiercely as anyone else -- but for Mrs. Potts and Cogsworth. She looked out for Papa, or Belle, but neither one came while the fighting was going on. 

There were also several young men she didn’t recognise. She supposed they must be the boys of the village who had gone off to the war the year before she, Issy and Papa arrived in Villeneuve. They had returned at some point in the last decade, and she found herself wondering if there were more people in the castle who had been affected by the curse than she originally thought. They chased off the attackers, and with a surge of triumph Plumette shot around the columns that adorned the doors. 

And then, suddenly, a jolt of _something_ shot down her body. 

The shock of it sent her back to the ground -- she still had enough strength to control the descent, but it was fading fast. Lumière caught her in his arms as her wings folded around her body, easing her landing. Panicked now, Plumette tried to move her handle. But she couldn’t. She tried ruffling her feathers. She couldn’t. She tried, with all her will, to say something -- anything. 

“Lumière,” she whispered. 

Her wonderful, enchanting, loving fiancé -- because, she remembered, they were finally engaged, after ten years -- looked into her eyes. Even made of gold, his movements growing stiffer with every second, his face was as expressive as always. He looked joyful -- and then worried -- and then grief-stricken. 

Elise fought to remain alive, to remain a person -- to see, and hear, and talk. 

But she couldn’t.

\---

The first thing she felt was cool air on her arm. _That can’t be right,_ Plumette thought. _I don’t have an arm anymore._ Somebody grasped her hand, pulling her up, and suddenly her head was covered in white feathers. Head, face, neck, torso, other arm, two legs and feet -- and suddenly Plumette was standing up, a gentle breeze blowing the feathers away, and she had brown skin again, and she had _skin_ again, and Lumière was standing in front of her with a dazed expression. 

“Plumette,” he said, still holding her hand. 

She grinned and pulled him in for a kiss. Their lips moved against each other, his hand heavy and warm on her waist, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. It was more than she had ever dreamed of to be this close to Lumière again, and feel him with human hands. They broke apart, and he grinned. His face no longer literally shone, but the effect was the same. 

“Lumière,” she smiled. “She did it. Belle broke the spell!”

They barely had any time to celebrate; transformations were still happening all around them. Chapeau, the good man, embraced Plumette warmly; Mrs. Potts was half-sobbing from relief; Cogsworth was almost too overjoyed to be stuffy; Madame and Cadenza were ecstatic to be able to hold their dog and each other once again. The villagers all began to regain their memories as well, and that sparked yet more reunions and tears. Plumette, giggling, did her best to avoid Clothilde’s dark looks -- or, possibly worse, a hug. 

In the midst of the commotion, the prince and Belle walked out the castle, hand in hand. The Master, she was amused to notice, hadn’t even stopped to put on his shoes before running down. Belle had somehow ended up in her underthings -- luckily they were underthings from thirty years ago, and covered her almost as much as the ballgown had -- and kept attempting to smooth her hair down. Plumette froze. Belle hadn’t noticed her yet, instead taking in the appearance of the castle and the newly transformed servants. 

“My prince,” Lumière said, bowing. 

“Hello, old friend,” he grinned, rushing forwards to hug him. 

Plumette laughed, turning towards Belle. “You saved our lives, Issy,” she said.

“Issy . . .” she murmured, a slight frown on her face. “Nobody’s called me that in --” Belle gasped loud enough for the prince to take notice. Her hands flew to her mouth as her eyes grew wide. “I remember.” she whispered. “I -- I remember you -- Elise!”

She ran forwards and pulled Plumette into a hug, which she returned full force, squeezing her little sister so tightly that both of them were gasping for breath by the end.

“You grew!” Plumette cried out. “You -- you little thing, you’re taller than me!”

Belle laughed, although she was also crying, and pulled her into another hug. “I told you I’d grow one day,” she managed to say. 

Plumette laughed again, and kissed her sister’s forehead. “Is Papa alright?”

“Papa’s fine,” Belle said. “I left him outside the wagon -- we both got locked in, but we picked the lock with one of my hairpins -- you know what, it’s a long story.”

“Can I ask what’s happening?” the prince said, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Did you two know each other?”

“You could say that,” Belle said. “Do you remember the child’s clothes and toys we found in Paris -- the ones that I would have been too young to use?”

“I do,” he said. “We assumed they’d been left by others using the building.”

“They weren’t,” Belle said. “They were Elise’s. She’s my sister.”

After a moment of processing -- and in the prince’s defense, it was only a moment -- he broke out into another smile and leaned over to shake Plumette’s hand, and draw her in for a quick embrace. 

“Since Maurice isn’t here, I suppose this is when you ask about my intentions?” the prince asked. 

Plumette smiled. “I know my sister, monsieur. I think your intentions are clear enough for her -- and if they’re clear enough for her, they’re clear enough for me.”

“Please, no more ‘monsieur’ or ‘master’,” he said. “We’ll be siblings-in-law soon!” 

“It doesn’t bother you that your wife is a maid’s sister?” Plumette asked. 

“Or, more to the point,” Belle added, “that our mother was Georgette Crécy?”

His eyebrows raised at that, but it also seemed to answer a question he had been wondering for quite some time. “Not at all,” he said. 

“In that case,” Plumette said, “you have my blessing, and my father’s by extension.”

“Really?” he said. “Because the last time I saw him . . .”

The sisters laughed, and both the prince and Lumière exchanged glances.

“Don’t worry about that,” Plumette said. “Papa’s always known that he can’t keep the women in this family doing anything they set their minds on.”

\---

After ten years of courting and six days of being engaged, Plumette and Lumière married in the little church in Villeneuve. Père Robert had smiled at them both, and the whole village had excitedly prepared for their nuptials. Belle and the prince’s wedding would not be happening for several more months, until the next spring, but already Madame de Garderobe was planning the pale dresses and sharp suits that the guests would be invited to wear. 

Maurice had cried many tears when Plumette, Lumière, Belle, and the prince had returned to the village, holding Plumette close and shaking both Lumière’s and the prince’s hands. He had shown Plumette the portrait of her mother which even after ten years, was still incomplete. 

“I couldn’t see the sketch of your figure,” he said, “but something in me just . . . couldn’t paint that section in.”

“You can finish it now,” Plumette said. “I’m back, Papa.”

Plumette graciously accepted Mrs. Potts’ post as housekeeper, when she announced that she was retiring from the position to spend more time with her husband and son. “And -- well, maybe it’s too soon to say -- but there’s a little one coming as well,” she had confided to Plumette in her rooms. “But I can’t think of anyone better suited than you, my dear. And it’s not like you’ll never see me again, either!”

So Plumette accepted the job, and she painted the little sitting room a pale yellow, like the first licks of fire. She went to bed with Lumière that night, running her hands through the short brown hair he wore under his wig. 

“Seems like a fairytale ending, Plumette, hmm?” he mumbled sleepily. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she whispered back. “It’s only the beginning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> This was born from a stray headcanon of mine -- what if the reason Maurice doesn’t tell Belle anything about her mother is because he was affected by the curse, not because of grief? So that got me thinking -- who would fit as somebody in the castle, as the link between Maurice and Belle’s mother? After a while, I thought of Plumette, and the headcanon just stuck to me. 
> 
> The age difference between Gugu Mbatha-Raw and Emma Watson is roughly the same as it is in this fic, which was part of the inspiration. Gugu Mbatha-Raw is also biracial, the same as Plumette in this fic and Dido Elizabeth Belle in the movie ‘Belle’, which is excellent and one I heartily recommend. 
> 
> Georgette was inspired by Mary Wollstonecraft, the mother of Mary Shelley (who wrote Frankenstein). Wollstonecraft was a noted feminist who faced considerable ostracism for having children out of wedlock, and objecting to the poor treatment of women in mid-to-late eighteenth century Britain. Wollstonecraft also eventually married to avoid harming her child by having her labelled a bastard (hiiii, William Godwin aka Mary Shelley’s dad), which is what Maurice does in this fic. Period-typical racism has been ignored. 
> 
> ‘Für Elise’ was not published until 1867, but it fit for my purposes so that is why it (briefly) features here. This is also why Elise’s mother played piano and not harpsichord. 
> 
> Elise, Lili, and Babette are all French diminutives of the name Elisabeth; my headcanon that this is her real name stems from CarolNJoy’s wonderful ‘Noble Sentiments’, which is a wonderful pre-curse story about ‘91 Babette and Lumière. Plumette is also a nickname here, which has been my headcanon ever since they announced that they were changing it in the remake for no apparent reason. Issy does not seem to be a diminutive of Isabelle, but it’s a cute name so sue me. 
> 
> Oh, speaking of -- dialogue from Beauty and the Beast does not belong to me, but to Disney.
> 
> Writing in third person limited is a new thing for me, especially for a piece of this length, so any feedback on that would be appreciated. 
> 
> Thanks go to the lovely folks on Bittersweet and Strange, who looked over the first half of this during the Writer’s Workshop. 
> 
> If you liked this, please leave a comment!


End file.
